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laketaj24 · 5 years ago

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Immured III

Author’s Note: Hi again!!! Alrighty now, this part is smutty af but also intense. There are triggers in the tags. And I’ll throw a warning on there as well! Taglist is open and requests are too!! But just know I am slow and I will get to them in a little while. I hope you enjoy the read!!! Happy Saturday loves!!

Warnings: kidnapping, slavery, smut. NONCON. Death.

Pairing: Reader X Ubbe, Reader x Hvitserk, Reader X Ubbe

Catch up here!!

Training with Ivar was brutal, but after his sessions with you at least he left you alone. He didn't come back to play with his food. He fucked you and carried on. Hvitserk hung around, checking in on you constantly. Each morning after Ivar taught you how to swallow without gagging or showed you how control an orgasm Hvitserk brought you books. He brought you food besides dry chicken and bread. He talked to you like he hadn't been your kidnapper.

There was a part of you that was thoroughly intrigued at his attentions but there was an incessant part that wanted him to stay away. Ivar's thick fingers had the lips of your pussy spread, showing the glistening pink and he looked predatory, he didn't have another look. You were sure. He spit and swiped the moisture over your already wet pussy before his cock pushed inside of you and his hands clamped down on your throat. "You take this dick well, Y/N."

You moaned, eluding him that you were close so that he would speed up and you could get back to your room of books. His hands tighten around your neck and you feel his cock grow rigid before the warm cum fills the inside of you and slowly runs down the round globe of your ass.

"You didn't even cum this time," He panted. He was offended but you were confused. He didn't want you to cum it was what all the fucking torture was about for the past month.

You breathe heavily standing up from bed with your eyes locked on the gray concrete floor of the fuck room. "You told me not to." your voice was small but inside you had called him one hundred names and cursed him to the burning pits of hell.

"Good." He buckles his pants and pushes the thick brown hair from his face before pulling your chin up and making you stare into his eyes. Ivar was weird. He wanted that human interaction but any time you reciprocated he'd damn near fuck you until you cried. "Downstairs."

Your favorite word. You hit the stairwell nearly bouncing to your room. The session had been earlier than normal, more time to yourself. The heavy door closed behind you and you picked up the latest book and curled underneath red wool cover. Ivar had worn you out so three pages in your eyes shut and you drifted off into a slumber.

Your dreams had become vivid. You could feel the soft pink lips sucking at your clit and your legs shake with anticipation as the climax took over your body. Then. Your eyes snap open. This wasn't a wet dream. Your body was shaking in unsolicited pleasure. The light brown head full of hair below you came as a pleasant surprise his tongue flicked over your clit before diving back into you. The groans emerging from him did more for you than expected. He was hungry for you. Taken by the way you tasted on the tip of his tongue, intrigued by the way your hands pulled on his hair as he made you scream with pleasure. Your eyes fluttered, legs flinched as the experience overtook you.

"Hvitserk." You yelped. Your legs instinctively pushed you up the bed but like a snake he slid with you not coming up for air. His tongue lapped up more you and sucked again. Your clit pulsed as the orgasm hit you and could feel then he rose up. The wicked grin on his face surfaced and he pushed your legs flush against the itchy wool. His hands slapped down on the slopes of your thighs and then he stroked himself from hilt to tip. Your eyes were hooked on the tip of his cock as his fingers swiped the precum down and his veined cock grew somehow bigger.

"You missed me?"

You bite your lip and catch yourself enticed by his lust. The fuck was happening with you? Hvitserk's innocently vile grin surfaced and with one forced push his cock was deep inside of you. Your walls excitedly gripped around him and he started to fuck you. Each stroke was intentional, he'd push so deep inside you, it felt as if your body was ready to explode, shatter with pleasure and then he'd pullout. He tapped the girth of his cock on your clit and your body still jolted with pleasure. Then he'd fuck you again. Chest to chest deeper than anyone had ever been. Your head knocked against the wall but the tempo of his stroke made you not give a fuck. You pushed your hand above your head winding your hips to match his tempo.

Hvitserk's hands were exploring, a twist of the nipples and then a slap with so much force it nearly triggered you to cum but your body revolted, shaking against him anxiously. "You want to cum on my dick?" He whispered. His lips kissed the line of your shoulder and then his tongue licked, tasting you before he slammed back into you. "Hmmm?"

Yes. You couldn't answer. You wouldn't actually.

"Cum on my dick Y/N." He growled and his hips began to move with haste as he fucked into you and all the control you had eluded yourself into having rescinded. Your body tensed as it was overwhelmed and then like a rubber band snapping you came. Immediately surged with pleasure and yelps flow from you like a fucking ballad. Hvitserk's groans intensified and his fingertips dug into your flesh until he finished inside of you, his body was rigid against yours as you overflowed with him and Ivar.

He pulled out of you sitting up on the bed. "Want to shower?" His voice was light as if you two were lovers rather than captor and prisoner.

"Please." you said flushed.

"Come on." He helped you stand on your weak legs and lead you down the hall. And then you could hear it, the birds chirping and the smell of fresh air. You didn't even realize how much you missed it until it hit.

It's amazing what adrenaline does. One minute you were near limp from being overfucked and overwhelmed and the next you had sprinted up the concrete steps skipping two each hop and you bolted out the door. Before you was nothing but vast land. The forest and a driveway that never seemed too end. You could hear Hvitserk behind you but he was nowhere near you. The plush grass felt like heaven beneath your feet but you had no time to think about that. You had to go. You had to get the fuck out of there.

You sprinted towards the woods, dressed in only your panties and bra the foliage beneath your feet had started to hurt. The sticks cracked, leaves rustled but you never looked back. You dipped under the branches as the huge compound faded behind you. If you could make it to the main highway, to cop you would never look back, never even think about them again.

You had no sense of time as you ran through the woods but the fading hue of the sun over the trees had helped you a little. You stopped for your breath, climbing trees and resting on a heavy branch cupping your hand over your mouth because it was someone on the woods beside you. Though they said nothing you could hear the subtle differences in the way they shuffled their feet over the forest floor.

You'd found your tree, peering down. The sounds of the night had taken over. The hoot of the owls and orchestra of the crickets used to annoy you, but you found your comfort tonight, listening to them remembering nights at home when they'd been the cause of your unrest. They weren't anymore.

The footsteps had stopped and when you closed your eyes you could hear what you were praying for all this time, civilization. The sound of tires on asphalt and the whoosh of the cars passing by. You were near the road. If you could make it to a car, anyone to help you were home free.

You climb down quietly being sure to make yourself light as you hit the ground. It wasn't like the movies, there was not a hint of light other than the moonlight and unlike the dramatics portrayed you could not see anything. You used your hands to guide you and within ten minutes you could see the lights of the road. You were free. The gravel below your feet was an indicator of it. You leaped into the road, your heart thudded. Stay on the road, move quick. You smiled tasting the glimpse of freedom.

"You never listen do you." The voice behind you was distant but not by much.

You turned and it was neither Ivar or Hvitserk. It was Ubbe. His blue eyes glowed eerily as the moonlight met them. You didn't turn back around you just ran on the smooth asphalt hoping anyone, someone would get you.

"Help!" You tried to scream. You waved your arms as the car approached. "Help!!!!!" You screeched and the car halted in front of you. The driver's eyes wide and alarmed. He leaped from the car.

"Are you okay?"

You grabbed the handle of his passenger door tugging but it was locked. "Get me out of hear!!" You cried. "Please! Just drive! Drive!"

The man was confused. "Is someone after you? Are you okay ma'am!"

"Do I look okay?" You cried. You ran around to him. "Drive and I will tell everything… please. Please!"

Finally he saw the horror in your eyes and he turned back to the car. "thank you." The tears streamed. "Thank you."

He opened the back door for you and you shook your head walking to the front. He unlocked it, understandingly and turned to get in the driver's seat. "Is that the guy?" He asked as Ubbe walked from the woods.

"Drive!"

"You fucking punk! You like to beat on women?" And then the muted sound of the gun shot occurred and the blood spattered as the man fell limp onto the windshield of the car. He gurgled as the blood spewed from him.

You watch Ubbe get closer. He was here to kill. You hopped in the car closing the door, clicking the lock button and you were relieved it was still running. You slide into the driver's seat and hit the gas and the car bolt forward. The man's body thuds to the floor and then the car slows. Instinctively you reach for the keys and you realize it has no keys. It has no keys! Ubbe gains momentum walking towards you dangling the small remote to the car.

"Don't you make me run again, or I swear to the gods I will just fuck your corpse." He yelled and then laughed. He reached the window and tapped. "Open up, I'd rather not walk. I need to save this energy." His eyes were wild. He did live for this.

You shake your head at him. "Just leave me alone!"

"I'm going to count to ten and then I will drag you from this car." Ubbe smirked. "And trust me the thought of seeing you bleed against the asphalt only makes me want to break this glass and show you why we don't run."

You block him out, shaking your head and then it happens. The handle of the gun shatters the glass Ubbe is in the car, pushing you to the passenger's seat. The car starts and the shards of the glass cut into your skin.

"What are you going to do to me?" You whispered.

"I'm going to fuck you into submission and if that doesn't work… kill you." He sighed. "Either way you're going to bleed."

#ivar the boneless #ivar #ubbe #ubbe x reader #ivar x reder #hvitserk #hvitserk x reader #vikings #laketa j writes #laketaj24 #tw: violence #tw: abuse #TW:Rape #tw: noncon #TW: Dubious Consent #tw: dubcon #tw: slavery #tw: death #vikings fanfiction

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whoareurl · 6 years ago

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Causing Chaos in Pyjamas (6/9)

While Q dozed restlessly, he had fleeting snippets of dreams involving guns and monsters and 007. He tried not to examine the significance of James Bond saving him from ankle-grabbing tentacle monsters in too much detail, especially considering he was technically the damsel in distress in that particular scenario. When he woke up, it was to the man himself securing a bandage around his injured foot, a small first aid kit open at his side with its guts scattered haphazardly around Bond’s knees.

(Bond’s shirt had a small rip on the right side of the chest just below his collarbone and Q had to try very hard not to look at it.)

“You must be really out of it,” Bond noted when he saw Q’s eyes were on him. “You didn’t even flinch when I used the alcohol.”

Q wriggled his toes experimentally, feeling the bandage shifting against his skin. Bond had done a good job but, then again, he was something of a practiced expert in field first aid so perhaps it wasn’t so surprising.

“Thank you, 007,” said Q with all the formality he could muster.

Bond’s smile was soft.

For a moment, Q found it all to easy to forget that they were currently hiding out at the old MI6 emergency base to avoid being captured and...killed? Q hadn’t given it much thought. He wasn’t entirely sure what the hackers wanted with them, exactly. They had their data - or so they thought - so what possible reason could they have for this bizarre pursuit? Q was well and truly baffled; a rare occurrence in and of itself.

“Have to get you some shoes,” Bond muttered, breaking the companionable silence with a concerned glance at Q’s bare and battered feet. “I should have thought of it sooner and then you wouldn’t have had to run through the tube like that. You’ll be lucky if you don’t get an infection.”

Q tried to smile. “I’m up to date on my vaccinations, I assure you.”

Perhaps as some sort of show of solidarity, Bond chuckled amiably and patted Q’s knee. By now, his pyjamas were dirtier than pyjamas ought to be with dirty marks on the knees and a general discolouration around the ankles. They weren’t exactly built for outdoor use.

Glancing around, Q noticed that the base looked very different than it had during their time there. The desks were bare and several were missing. A few stray wires lay scattered across tables and on the floor (Q would have to see about reprimanding whichever of his minions were careless enough to leave them behind) and the room was shrouded in darkness. When he looked up at the ceiling, Q realised that was because only the light on the far side of the room had a working bulb. Typical of MI6, really. Typical of the British government, in all honesty.

Q sighed, a wet, heaving sound that crackled on its way out. He winced immediately at the sound of the obvious thick congestion clogging his poor chest. As he gave his chest a soft rub with the palm of his hand, he caught Bond’s eye.

“Don’t suppose they left the kettle behind, did they?” He asked hopefully.

Bond grinned and sauntered off to the little kitchenette just through one of the doors.

“You’re in luck,” Bond’s voice called, muffled by the walls. He reappeared in the doorway, waving a white plastic kettle which Q suspected was from Argos. Still, if it could heat water, Q didn’t particularly care.

Minutes later, Bond placed a steaming cup into Q’s hands and his chilled fingers sang with the warmth as they curled around the curves. The cup was one of those cups that Q absolutely loathed; it was a cup sporting an inspirational quote in curled lettering which changed colour on a gradient.

Reach for the stars.

If he’d managed to eat anything, Q might have vomited. No doubt this had once belonged to R who was nuts about things like this.

Wistfully, Q thought of Q-Branch, his branch, and the minions who even now were working there tirelessly to keep the country safe. Q had a deep affection for his subordinates, especially the clever ones (like R), and would defend any one of them against whatever threat stood in their path.

He took a sip of his tea.

“Christ,” he sputtered, quickly swallowing the offensive substance Bond had had the nerve to present to him and call tea. “What the hell is this?”

Bond’s face sported a look of self-satisfied mirth. “No Earl Grey, I’m afraid. You’ll have to make do with the cranberry and raspberry stuff I found in the cupboard.”

Q grimaced, shooting a withering scowl in Bond’s direction as he took another sip, this time more prepared for the sickly sweet flavour to his his tongue. It wasn’t what he’d been hoping for but he knew that beggars could not be choosers and right now, on the run with a cold and a smarmy double-oh, Q would definitely classify himself as a beggar.

“Bond, I’m reassigning you,” he muttered grumpily as he swallowed another mouthful. “This is an affront to Queen and Country and it needs to stop.”

While Bond smiled back at him, Q let the steam clear his sinuses. It made his nose run but thankfully it didn’t trigger those horrid itchy sneezes he’d spent most of the morning cursing. There was only so much the steam produced Q’s small cup of tea could do in the face of his aggressive congestion but even the slight relief it granted him from this gruesome headache was welcome. He still felt like there was an entire orchestra in there playing in dissonance, the pressure of the noise making his temples pulse and swell in an effort to contain it, but in the absence of painkiller this would have to do.

“I believe this particular brand is manufactured in the US,” said Bond offhandedly and Q grimaced.

“Even worse,” he muttered and thankfully Bond didn’t comment on the fact that he finished the entire cup anyway.

With the comfortable heat of the tea in his stomach and its residual warmth settling nicely in his chest, Q was starting to feel somewhat better. The breakdown Bond had suggested he save for later didn’t appear to be making a comeback. That was something, he supposed. Handling mental health issues didn’t feature nearly as prominently on MI6’s extensive list of required training for field agents as Q thought it ought to, given their penchant for dragging innocent and frightened civilians into the mix with them. Bond, of course, was particularly guilty of this; he couldn’t resist a pretty face.

The improvement was short lived, however, as Q suddenly found himself shrinking into himself with another wet, rumbling cough. Before he could curl up in a pathetic ball, Bond’s hands were on his shoulders. Bond moved to sit beside him and curled one arm around his waist to keep him upright. Q could only rub uselessly at his chest while Bond did the same to his back, waiting for it to pass.

“You need a doctor,” Bond stated plainly while Q’s lungs tried to clear themselves to no avail. He could barely breathe and Bond’s hand on his back was a welcome comfort. “We need to get you to MI6. You sound like you’ve got the Thames in your lungs.”

When his chest finally stopped spasming, Q gave a hum of agreement. “Not to alarm you, but I fear I might be developing a chest infection,” he said nonchalantly. He didn’t want to put Bond on even higher alert by suggesting that it might - might - be pneumonia. He’d had it twice before and it had certainly felt a lot like this.

The Thames comparison was rather accurate given how little space Q felt had been reserved for air in his crackling, wheezing chest. Really, it was getting to the point where Q could be attacked by a savage rhino and think well, this might as well happen. However, a potential chest infection was hardly worrying him as much as trying to lose their pursuers. Besides, he’d still been able to run even if the experience had left him terribly breathless. Even if it did turn out to be something a little more serious- well, they could deal with it later.

Apparently, Bond didn’t agree with Q’s order of priorities.

“It’ll be no good outsmarting them if you die of dysentery before we can get you somewhere safe,” he grumbled and something about the way he said ‘we’ made Q’s thick chest feel just a little lighter.

“This isn’t the Oregon Trail, Bond. I don’t think dysentery is a typical complication of the common cold,” Q quipped.

Bond grunted. “It’d be much easier if I could take you to a safehouse.”

(Q chose not to point out that Bond had insisted they head for MI6 not moments before.)

“I can do much more good from HQ,” said Q instead with an absent wave of his hand.

“Maybe,” Bond conceded. “But I’m sure your immune system would appreciate some help. Rest might not be a bad idea.”

Q could feel his headache returning. “Bond, I know you mean well, but my agents are in danger because of me,” he said with steel in his tone. “If I can be doing something useful, I can’t justify resting.”

Bond muttered something that Q couldn’t hear but he didn’t ask Bond to repeat himself.

After a beat of silence, Q added, “We should get going.”

Bond shook his head. “Another half hour. Then we’ll go.” He ignored the look Q was giving him (which was incredibly vexing) and continued, “Call it instinct but I’d rather wait a bit longer. Besides, you’re dead on your feet and you’ll be a liability if you can’t even stand.”

Q wanted to protest because he was certain that Bond’s reasons for staying had much more to do with Q’s health than they should have done considering how many agents were currently in danger. But he had to concede that last point. He needed a clear head or he’d end up getting them both caught.

Reluctantly and with all the grace of a downed elephant, Q slumped over on the floor again with Bond’s one-armed suit jacket draped over him. It didn’t do much to stem his brutal shivers but it was a nice gesture nonetheless. It smelled of Bond - all cologne and alcohol and charm. Q couldn’t help but find the familiar smell comforting. Of all the people he could be stuck with in this situation, Bond would definitely have been his first choice. Quite aside from the fact that he was a trained spy with a licence to kill and a poorly-hidden protective streak when it came to his Quartermaster, he was also Q’s favourite double-oh to go toe-to-toe with in a war of wits. Bond could give as good as he got and Q could well appreciate a sharp tongue and a quick mind.

“Stop thinking so loud, Q, or they’ll find us in a heartbeat,” Bond teased.

Never mind. Q would much rather be stuck here with anybody else. He made a half-arsed attempt to flip Bond off and let his mind wander. He tried to think of his meditation CDs with their soft ocean waves and creaking forests. Bond would probably tease him about it if he knew but Q would be quick to tell him that 00-bloody-7 was 90% of the reason he needed them in the first place.

Listen to him, having arguments with James Bond in his own bloody head.

Half an hour passed but it was closer to forty-five minutes before Bond roused him, helping him to his feet and helping Q slip his arms (well...arm) into Bond’s jacket in a way which was almost motherly. Bond’s poorly containing smirk at the sight of Q’s pyjama-clad arm sticking out of the hole where the right arm should be, however, was distinctly reminiscent of a teasing older brother.

Q shot him a withering scowl. “Not one word, 007.”

For once in his life, James Bond said nothing.

#q sickfic #chaosinpjs #acefic #sickfic #acefic 007 #acefic 00q

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mixlyra-blog · 6 years ago

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unforgivable.

Trigger Warning: Blood, Torture, Gore

Holy shit–Lyra could only blink, licking her dried, cracked lips as she glanced down, her eyes firmly to the ground. That was a lot of blood. The young killer flexed her wrists, lacerated with multiple cuts and trembling viciously with pain from all her nails that had been viciously pulled out. Blood dripped like a symphony to an orchestra onto the dirty floor, and a rough sigh escaped Lyra’s lips, her voice hoarse from the lack of use–not of screaming.

After all, she had been through much worse years before.

That itself was sufficient training for her forbearance for torture, the lack of voice that she gave her torturers when they pulled her nails from her fingers, and brutally smashed their fists into her face.

Is that all they could do? Lyra nearly wanted to scoff, her mind hyper-vigilant from all the pain that she consciously repressed but was still experiencing. No one knew more than she ever did of pain and torture. She still bore the marks of the mental scars that had been imprinted into her from her time of training. Her hands strained against the restraints, rope burns slicing themselves into the tender skin of her wrists.

“You do know that I don’t know anything, right?” Her words slurred together, an effect of how much pain her body was experiencing, even though her mind was working overtime to repress the thought of it. “Whatever you’re doing, is futile.” She spat, blinking as the harsh crash of china upon her head caused her to suck in a breath, vision swimming as blood crept down her forehead in a slow, jagged and unrefined line. Her head pounded, as though it was a steady beat of a painful drum, the insides of her cheeks bitten nearly to shreds as she spat blood onto the ground, clenching her lips together and sucking in yet another breath.

“Perhaps you should try a different way then.” She snapped. Lyra knew that she shouldn’t be taunting the male before her that held the key to her apparent current life and death. But she just couldn’t help it. It was just a chance too good to let pass.

#wonwoomi #||memes #|| wonwoo threads #god this is so late and so bad #feel free to continue

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slavicviking · 6 years ago

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26 for the writing prompt? :D

I hope you enjoy!

“The diamond in your engagement ring is fake.” from this.

Ffnet version ao3 version

Engagedin a dangerous kind of business

The dress was too long.

She had filed a complaint toher boss but what she was met with in response was a slap on a back and a condensinglaugh. Lesson learned - apparently being attractive meant more than beingeffective because there was no way in the world she would be able to throw adecent kick in a dress as long as this one.

She huffed as she stared at her reflection in the mirror wall.

“It’s almost time, Astrid,” Hiccup announced as he entered the room. Hefixed his cuffs absently, mind miles away as it always was at moments likethese. His left hand dove into the expensive jacket’s pocket and he fished outa small box, handing it to her with a strained smile.

The ring was…okay, nothing too attention-grabbing, nor tacky-looking.

Enough for them to sell the lie.

“M’lady?” Hiccup inquired as he raised his arm, his smile more genuinethis time. Astrid felt herself relaxing as she hooked their arms together. As planned,there was a black limousine waiting for them outside, their usual driver,Snotlout, already waiting for them to get in. As they sat down, her hand wentto fix her hair, noting that at a certain angle her earpiece remained visible.

Gods, this plan was destined to fail. Not that anyone wanted to listento her. Except for one person.

“You look, eh, you look beautiful,” Hiccup’s nervous voice sounded toher left and she allowed herself to smile, just a little. There was somethingheart-warming in the fact that she was not the only one that had their doubtswhen it came to their mission; she knew he had her back, he always did.

Having been thoroughly checked at the entrance, they entered the GreatHall hand in hand, immediately blown away by the richness of the room – thediamond chandeliers, marble floors and highest-quality furniture, where asingle piece was worth more than her monthly wage. The dance floor in themiddle was filled with couples dancing a waltz as Johann Strauss II’s ‘WienerBlut’ filled the enormous Hall.

“Care for a dance?” Hiccup quirked an eyebrow her way.

“You know I don’t dance,” she answered with half-hearted shake of herhead though her lips stretched into a tired smile.

“I know Astrid Hofferson does not,” he laughed quietly when she hushedhim. “but perhaps Lady Fowler does?”

“Fine then,” she pulled on his hand, “Mr. Danaher. I suppose a dance it is.”

Hiccup grinned cheekily at her as she tugged him by the sleeve towardsthe dancefloor. They swerved across it with surprising grace and finesse as thefinest Vienna orchestra played their soft tunes in the background. The secretjoy of doing something as simple as dancing was brutally interrupted when, fromthe corner of her eye, she saw her target. She had gone through Castel’s fileand it had been long since she had felt so disgruntled, so disgusted whiledoing so. She would have taken him down if it were up to her but it was not thefocus of her mission here and she was not going to be the one to go againsttheir boss’s wishes.

The task was simple; make sure Hiccup had enough time to do what he wassupposed to – hack into the system, destroy Castel from the inside.

She was a distraction, as much as she did not like it.

Once the piece finished, Astrid felt Hiccup’s arms around her loosen andshe knew it was time to do what they came here to do. She saw Castel meetingher eye for a split moment, a strange expression gracing his quite handsomeface. He was young, so terrifyingly young – his gentle manner did not match thebrutal reports, it was almost too easy to doubt.

She made sure Castel was occupied before pulling Hiccup away from thedancefloor. He noticed the man, their target, and frowned. Castel being here,so close, was not part of the plan, but perhaps they could use it to theiradvantage.

“I’m going to the bathroom, I’ll be back soon,” he squeezed her hand ashe said it, a signal between them both. She used it to hug him shortly.

“Be careful,” she quickly whispered.

“Aren’t I always?” Hiccup mustered a smile she knew was just a cover-upfor how nervous he was, understandably so; Hiccup was never supposed to haveleft his office back at their base. But he did, and she would what she could tokeep him safe. Her heart jolted sharply in her chest as she saw him leave.

He would be safe, there was no other way.

Astrid took her place by one of the tables, beautifully set up and almostbuckling under all the exquisite foods placed on top. She took a moment toremind herself of Castel’s file, thinking of a good way to approach anddistract him. Her stomach twisted as she thought of the folder, swollen withabuse, violence and manipulation. A glass of surely very expensive red wine temptedher from across the table.

“Lady Fowler, is it?” A voice cut through her thoughts like awell-sharpened knife. Castel appeared to her right, his hands in the pants’pockets.

“Yes?” she inquired with a slight nod of her head, surprised that he wasthe one to approach her. It wasn’t right. She quickly stood up, fixing thefolds on her dress. “Is there something I can help you with, Sir?”

“I wanted to ask if you have seen the art exhibition yet?” he didn’tlook at her as he spoke. There was some roughness, some rawness hidden underthe perfect smile, perfect hair and perfect clothes. She swallowed.

“Oh, I fear I haven’t had the pleasure yet,” Astrid shruggedhalf-heartedly, her eyes shifting towards the direction in which Hiccup left.He caught that and she cursed inwardly.

“Let me show you then,” Castel held out his arm for her, a charmingsmile accompanying his gentleman-like manners.

“I should wait for my fiancé-“

“Mr. Bailey here will inform him to join us,” he quickly jumped in witha nonchalant wave of his hand. Mr. Bailey, a man that had to be in his oldfifties at the least, smiled warmly her way. His gentle blue eyes and longblond moustache fancily done gave away a trustworthy impression. He lookedalmost…familiar, or so it seemed to her. “Now, if I may-?”

She linked her arm with his, keeping as much distance between them aspossible. It was awkward, painfully so, but she was not willing to disrespecther personal space any more than she had done already this evening.

The art gallery, as it turned out, was truly a sight to behold.Awe-inspiring baroque and romantic paintings graced walls on both sides of thecorridor. She and Castel walked down the red carpet that her legs sunk intowith each step, with the man himself presenting each landscape and portrait witha detailed and personalized description. Her eyelids felt heavier as moreinformation was shared and the hall didn’t seem to get any shorter, quite theopposite really.

Art was never her domain; it was Hiccup’s more than anyone else’s out ofpeople she knew.

Gods, she hoped he was safe. She remained unsettled as the earpiece keptsilent on his end.

It was then that she realized – the Hall was empty. Gone were the lonecouples wondering around and young artists fawning over the masterpieces fromcenturies ago. A shiver ran down her back as she realized how dangerous of asituation she was currently in.

Castel released her arm and she knew.As he threw a fist her way, she was ready and blocked it with her forearm, herother hand going to unsheathe a small knife. She choked as Castel managed tograb her by the throat and press against the wall, in-between two paintings.She hid her hand grasping the knife under her back – a foolish and amateurmistake on his part.

He pressed his forearm onto her neck and she gasped for air.

“You think you had me fooled?” he hissed, his irritation growing by thesecond. Astrid saw an insane glint in his eyes.

“The diamond in your engagement ring is fake,” he sneered as he roughlypulled off the piece of cheap jewelry, thrusting it down the hall. It rolleddown on the floor, falling into a small ventilation opening. Astrid used the briefmoment of distraction as she bit into his arm, hard.

Castel ripped his arm away and clutched it, with a low growl under his breath.Taking the brief moment of distraction to her advantage, she cut through theside of her dress with the knife and threw a kick into his stomach. The manstumbled backwards. She pressed the earpiece into her ear.

“Hiccup, it’s over, get out of there – now!” she quickly said as she felt herself being thrown sideways. Witha groan, Astrid tried to throw a punch his way but he caught her fist andtwisted her arm, her back now pressed tightly against his front. She elbowedhim in the stomach, setting herself free.

Until she heard a clung of a gun.

She turned around slowly to see him point it her way, his face radiatingfrom insane rage and glistening with sweat. He wouldn’t fire. He wouldn’t darewith so many people in the room right next to them, not with so many witnesses.

He loaded the gun.

She felt a beat of sweat roll down her forehead as she cursed herselffor not taking her glock pre-emptively. Her boss had forbid her from doing so,but she should have anyway.

“Astrid? Where are you?” Hiccup’s nasally voice sounded in her ear. Hewas safe, he had to be, right?

“Go without me,” she whispered back as the gun stared at her from acrossthe corridor, framed with a confident smirk on Castel’s face.

“Astrid, what-?” she heard his confusion and panic as she turned off theearpiece. It’s me and you, Castel.

“You think I won’t shoot you?” his voice quivered, his shaky fingerghosting over the trigger. No, she had no doubt that she would. Her eyes roamedover the room in a weak attempt to find a way out. She saw a bulky shadow andher heart stopped.

“I wouldnae do that if I were ye.”

She released a shaky breath as Castel lowered the gun. Mr. Bailey pressedhis own glock to the young man’s skull.

“This is the FBI,” the man said through gritted teeth. Castel, all of asudden, appeared stupidly vulnerable as he dropped his gun and fell to hisknees, his arms falling limp by his sides.

“You betrayed me, Mr. Bailey,” he murmured surprised with a child-likeinnocence to it, and she found it hard to believe it was the same guy that wasready to blast her brains out just a minute ago. “You betrayed me.”

He kept repeating that as Mr. Bailey handcuffed him and as he waspositioned safely by the wall, his gun out of his reach.

“Gobber,” the older man informed as he went in to shake hands with her.Noting Astrid’s obvious hesitation, he fished out an ID. “I worked undercoverfer Castel fer a year now.”

“No such information was forwarded-“

“Those muttonheads are as organized as-“ Gobber waved his hand as shelooked at him skeptically. “Never mind. Point is, I was informed, agent Hofferson.”

She heard sirens outside. Her heart leapt and she jumped to reach thedoors to the Great Hall. People must have been evacuated as the ballroomremained empty, untouched food filling the tables still. She saw Hiccup, safe,talking to their boss by the main entrance, worry prominent on his face. Theireyes met. It took all her will power to not ran his way. But he was safe. Shesmiled, adrenaline wearing off.

“Good thing it was a fake one,” Astrid huffed, taking out a small velvetbox from her safe in their office. She unlocked the lid and took out a smallsilver ring before sliding it onto one of her fingers. Hiccup barked a short laugh.

“Gods, I don’t know what I would have done,” he shook his head. “I can’tafford another one.”

She snorted, a lazy smile making its way on her face.

“Well, it’s more about the person than the ring, don’t you think?” sheinquired teasingly as she leaned forward to peck him on the lips.

“True,” her fiancé agreed thoughtfully. With a smile of his own, hehanded her his arm, for the second time this evening. “Ready to go home, LadyHofferson?”

Her laugh was truly something that could brighten up anyone’s day, hisespecially.

“As ready as I’ll ever be, Mr. Haddock.”

The End

The rest of my writing.

If you want to request a drabble.

#httyd fanfiction #httyd #hiccstrid #hiccstrid fanfiction #modern au #my writing

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bluetapes · 8 years ago

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pre-order here: https://bluetapes.bandcamp.com/album/x-ray-five-the-sparrow-12

Deluxe ultra-clear 12" vinyl screenprinted with ‘moth’ artwork

The post-genre sounds Blue Tapes and X-Ray Records has mined and curated over the past couple of years might not immediately code as metal, but as early as our home-dubbed tape days we were exploring death metal’s potential as vocal-only music with blue ten: EyeSea.

Jute Gyte is unambiguously metal music and I genuinely believe that Adam Kalmbach, the sole musician and producer behind the project, is the most important musician in metal since Death’s Chuck Schuldiner, himself the most important metal musician since Tony Iommi, the man whose fingers created metal.

As a teenager into the Mortal Kombat soundtrack and Nine Inch Nails, Adam learnt metal guitar. Later, he studied composition at university, and had his brain nuked by early and baroque music, serialism and Sibelius, and the universes of potentials opening like wormholes in his head created Jute Gyte.

Jute Gyte applies microtonality and modernist compositional approaches to black metal. This isn’t in itself what makes Jute Gyte’s music great, though it does explode one thing that has slowly narrowed into a conservative musical tradition out into something new, that no one has heard before. New sounds and new feelings.

This is not dry, academic music. It is scientific, exploratory, but as physical as the most brutal splatters of 1991-era death metal, which - despite using gore as a convenient if slightly-knuckleheaded shorthand for the abstract, lurching new riff forms of the genre - had a transdimensional element even then.

Jute Gyte’s orchestra of microtonal guitars sounds as though it is vomiting blackholes. But maybe what initially scans as occult horror in Jute Gyte’s music is just seasickness caused by the unfamiliarity of this new terrain.

“I understand how stuff I've done sounds ugly to people,” Adam concedes, “but it doesn't sound ugly to me. Or, it doesn't sound exclusively ugly. It's just a different kind of language. If you haven't internalised that language, then you're going to hear a lot of things that sound like 'wrong' notes. I hear little musical jokes, I hear happy parts and sad parts, and I hear a lot of parts that don't seem to have any emotive content at all. It's not just uniformly ugly, just as Schoenberg's work is not intended to be uniformly ugly.”

For x-ray five, Adam has crafted two side-long pieces. The first of these, The Sparrow, is a kind of modernist black metal symphony that might share some signifiers with the despair-loaded blizzard hymns familiar to fans of Norwegian BM. But those beautiful flocks of guitars - sometimes they sound like they’re hovering, or scrolling back and forth, rather than ‘riffing’. A dazzling murmuration. And it wasn’t some grimoire that provided the lyrical inspiration for the piece, but Stoner author John Edward Williams’ 1965 poetry collection, The Necessary Lie.

The second piece, Monadanom, is from a suite of ambient microtonal guitar pieces that Adam began developing for us in early 2014. It is oceanic, not in the usual new age-y sense most often applied to ambient music, but in that it is raging with life and detail; unfathomable.

Self-released Jute Gyte albums like Perdurance, Ship of Theseus and Ressentiment are acknowledged as modern classics not only of metal or experimental music, but of any genre.

Adam doesn’t self-promote or use social media, play live or collaborate with other artists, but a fiercely loyal fanbase has already swarmed around him. This is his first full release with a label and I consider it to be one of the most important releases for Blue Tapes and X-Ray Records.

This is a metal record, but for me, it makes total sense that Jute Gyte would be on the same label as Katie Gately and Tashi Dorji, rather than Roadrunner or even Relapse. These humans are his peers - artists who are changing people’s perceptions of the possibilities of modern music at a cellular level.

Adam Kalmbach is influenced by Harry Partch, Xenakis, Penderecki, Gloria Coates, Mahler and Brahms; he regards Jute Gyte as belonging to a continuum of ‘late Romantic’ music.

Jute Gyte will appeal to any fans of Stockhausen, Morbid Angel, Sonic Youth, Gojira, Autechre, Blut Aus Nord, Deathspell Omega, Slayer, Tim Hecker, Daniel Lopatin, Khanate, Ulver, Anaal Nathrakh, Liturgy, Mahavishnu Orchestra, King Crimson or Godflesh.

A FEW WORDS FROM JOHN DORAN, EDITOR OF THE QUIETUS:

"A house sparrow beats its elliptical wings up to fifteen times per second. This may seem paltry compared to the ruby-throated hummingbird which can flap 200 times per second but it simply isn’t. The beats are just slow enough for us to be able to discern the highly focussed power of passer domesticus - the most widespread wild bird in the world. No floating gracefully by on an invisible blur of feathers for the common sparrow just the powerful little upstroke, the powerful little downstroke and all of the other (half and quarter) positions that join them. One sparrow takes wing; then another; then another. Common, ungainly birds? Spiteful little pests? Not a bit of it. If you spent your life watching them perhaps you could frame the astonishing lattice of a meinie of these tiny creatures. Perhaps you could figure the calculus of a tribe of sparrows taking flight. A host that breaks apart on the ground and reassembles on the wing.

"The music of Jute Gyte, made by the visionary musician Adam Kalmbach, makes me feel sick. I hope there has been a distant civilisation somewhere along the way who have paid emetic tribute to their most revered cultural producers, as I do mean this as the highest of compliments to the chef. Because while the harsh, fiercely avant garde, black metal of microtonal progressions and complex time signatures he produces does genuinely make me feel quite queasy, I’d like to think any genuine regurgitation suffered by me would be the kind that precedes the ayahuasca vision or the state of satori triggered by a pure dose of MDMA. The churning thunder of albums such as Ship Of Theseus and Perdurance - and now this genuinely awesome 12”, The Sparrow, on X-Ray Records - is equally matched by a nagging aesthetic of pessimism. While this may well by umami to a depressive realist’s palate, as with The Silence Of Animals by John Gray, this music contains the very real possibility of transcendence. (This being the rare transformative state often promised by modern black metal, yet the most conspicuous by its absence.)

"There is a bird sanctuary on the West Lancashire Coastal Plain, near Burscough, called Martin Mere. In the foyer of the visitor centre there is a charity coin spinner, a large money collection device, sometimes also known as a coin vortex donation box. The device is essentially a large, smooth, downward-curving funnel, protected by a semi-spherical clear plastic dome. There is a slot into which you press a coin. Now sometimes, but not often, the coins don’t take and they slide, flat side down straight into the funnel and immediately out of sight into the collection box. Mostly however they circle. This happens slowly at first; a large graceful loop of the shallower edge of the funnel but because of gravity they never make a complete circumference, instead they always travel in a concentric circle, down the funnel, picking up speed as the spiral shrinks inwards. Each pass round the funnel becomes shorter and shorter until it essentially becomes a tube, round which the coin travels horizontally at great speed. It moves so quickly it is hard to tell what is happening.

"Whump, whump, whump, whump. The coin becomes more absence than presence. And then, just for a fraction of a second before disappearing into the dark for good, the coin is no longer touching the funnel wall.

"And at that moment, there is take-off. "

PRAISE FOR JUTE GYTE:

"Lurching, ascending, descending – ever moving in a time that doesn’t seem to resemble time at all. Sometimes the music of Jute Gyte sounds as though it is crawling around inside you, threatening to escape. Whether it is slowing up or speeding down sometimes seems not only subjective, but actually kind of irrelevant. This is genuinely transdimensional music. It obeys the rules of little other sound in our universe. In an era where the ‘psychedelic’ is much fetishized, but oft-misunderstood, Jute Gyte is making music that is beyond cosmic. It looks where space rock has taken us and laughs. Why waste time on sailing a backdraft of flanger up to the moon when you can wrench open reality itself and slide a rotten tentacle through the cracks? This isn’t for people who find black metal cute. And it isn’t for people who find black metal extreme. Microtonal metal might never inspire memeworthy fandom, but right now it sounds like the future. And the past. And the whole ugly present – all knotted together in a vipers nest of ouroboros." - 20 Jazz Funk Greats

"Jute Gyte's Perdurance is a modern classical black metal masterwork" - Noisey

"It's tempting to focus on this album's otherworldly guitar sound and various other unusual technical components, but its emotional charge is its most compelling feature. Many black metal acts address the idea that we're on our own in a blind, hostile cosmos, but rarely does the horror feel so real." - Stereogum

"If you can sit through it, you will be rewarded by relentlessly entertaining cacophony shot through with a warped sense of humour. If you don’t believe me, take my roommate’s word for it: “Could you never play that skronk album again? I really hate it.” So fire up the coals, put some brews on ice, then lock yourself in the basement and twitch to the summer sounds of Jute Gyte." - The Quietus

"Few recent artists have made such inimitable music as Missourian Adam Kalmbach, architect behind the protean madness of Jute Gyte" - Metal Sucks

"Adam Kalmbach has produced vast quantities of what is hands down the most forward-thinking and complex music metal has to offer" - Angry Metal Guy

"Jute Gyte is music for people who don’t necessarily want what they take in to make them feel better, or even good." - Heavy Blog Is Heavy

"Though not a “pretty” or “pleasant” album by any means, Kalmbach’s genuinely alien approach to harmony and composition coupled with a greater emotional weight than much of his previous work makes Ressentiment one of his best albums yet, and one of the best this year." - Toilet ov Hell

"We are hearing a truly original artist completely at ease with his medium" - Heathen Harvest

"Swirling, chaotic, virulent, black and maddening" - Cvlt Nation

"The guitar sounds like it’s being played by an alien" - Nine Circles

"Robin Thicke is a human. Jute Gyte could eat him." - Decoder Magazine

"The music Kalmbach writes is now top notch covering all the bases of brittle, spiteful black metal, creepy atmospherics and a contrasting, unique style that makes his music stand out above much of the like minded one man black metal out there today." - Teeth of the Divine

"Jute Gyte remains one of our most creative and challenging American black metal extracts." - From the Dust Returned

"Jute Gyte’s now signature hyperdissonance meets the ever-shifting polyrhythms of IDM, Gamelan’s chiming bells, and the shifting dread of early electronic music. Perdurance is a strange album whose penchant for the impenetrable verges on Dadaism" - Invisible Oranges

"Ears accustomed to Western 12-tone polyphony can barely process these sounds—they sink into your skull like red-hot stones into ice. It's like you're listening to a tape at the wrong speed, or to music warped by a black hole's gravitational lens on its way here from several galaxies away." - Chicago Reader

"cracked decrepit guitar tones creak against the maelstrom of drone swelling and spilling in harmonious fury, with buried drum machine marching through the void and anguished vocals recounting an ancient war of mass slaughter. electronics and treatments figure more prominently than on other BM projects, sure to piss off purists and blurring the divide between metal and noise: overwhelming buzzing distortion and delay" - KFJC

#jute gyte #adam kalmbach #blue tapes #x-ray records #john doran #the quietus #death #chuck schuldiner #black metal #tony iommi #godflesh #king crimson #mahavishnu orchestra #stockhausen #autechre #blut aus nord

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